Friday, April 19, 2013

Primitive Spanking PoemLook at him there with his baseball capPaddle in hand, ready to slaughterOnly my Daddy could spank like that,And I love my Daddy like he loves his daughter.The screen door slams, but it's no so funny--Taken by arm to the shedHis hand feels cold and I'm sick to my tummyMy stomach burbling sounds of dread.My shorts are hung on the wall by the strapHe gives extra with that because he wants me to hollerHe motions with a hand to go over his lapMy bottom soon burns, Hell couldn't be hotter.The whipping done I sit and sob in the cornerMy throat hoarse from screaming like a scalded cat "Father!"Only my Daddy could spank like that,And I love my Daddy like he loves his daughter.

Thursday, April 4, 2013

The Man from Van NuysI once knew a man from Van NuysWho, strangely enough, had seven wivesAnd every wife carried seven switchesWhich Hubby used to tame dem bitchezI told this man "You sound great!Can I be wife number eight?"The Encino ChickThere once was a chick from EncinoIn love with a surfer named Stevie-rinoBut he vowed to make her bottom soreAfter she smoked up all the weed he scoredSo over his knees Stevie flipped herAnd with a boogie board he whipped herWhich made her love him all the more!The Naughty "Val" from Sherman OaksThere once was a "Val" from Sherman OaksWho to stay home from high school played a hoaxBy falsely claiming diarrheaSo she could hang out all day at the GalleriaAfter her Mom left for workShe put on a teeny-tiny miniskirtAnd a tubular top totally tightAnd painted her toenails nice and brightOff to the mall she did driveIn a '76 Pinto, her bitchin' rideBut at the jewlery store her nerves got rattledWhen her college-aged sister's friend threatened to tattleTo buy her silence to this girl she entrustedCostume ear rings glass diamond encrustedBut, to the Val's surprise, the girl shouted "Busted!"When the mall cop came the girl shouted "Hey.""This chick shoplifted. Take her away."The poor little Val began to cry"Oh please 'Mr. Mall Cop' can't you let it slide?"So the mall cop called her Mom insteadWho arrived at the security office with a face flushed redFor showing mercy the cop was thankedThen Mom told daughter she would be spankedShe shouted "No way Mom, I'm too old for that!"To which Mom replied with a grim little laughSo in her Pinto she followed Mom homeBut she couldn't help but let her mind roamTo the wooden paddle she soon would sampleSuffering a whipping more than ampleDid this experience prove a blessingBy teaching this chick a good lessonThat it's not cool to skip schoolBy playing Mom for a fool?Sad to say it did notFor Vals rarely do what they 'oughtSo Mom to continued to heat the seat of daughter's saddleWith her totally awesome paddle!

Monday, March 11, 2013

This story is now included in my short-story anthology "The Best of 1950s Wife Vol. 2," which may be purchased for ready read on your Kindle from Amazon.com for the reasonable price of $2.99 by clicking this link:The Best of 1950s Wife Vol. 2

Wednesday, February 27, 2013

It
began with me climbing a hill going up and up and up until I was so high that
rivulets of fog streamed through the crevices of the brown mountain peaks.
(Even though I was dreaming, my mind recognized the setting as California.)

Being
California, the houses along the hill were of modern design and also very
large. Finally, I reached the top of the hill which looked down upon the canyon
below.

I
saw the front of a house, one of mansion size, which I recognized as “my house”
even though I’ve never lived in one that large. Then, all of a sudden, I was
inside the house.

I
may have been an adult before in the dream, but now I was a child around 11
years old. I wore a loose-fitting white dress, more like a nightgown but it was a dress not pajamas, and knelt in the corner.

A
pretty lady, who in my dream was my Mom but didn’t look like my real-life
mother, watched over me while holding a paddle. She held the paddle in a
“school marm" grip: right hand holding the handle and left fingering the board.

She didn’t speak, but I recognized I would be spanked once my cornertime was
done.

And,
rather than fear, I felt the most wondrous sensation of blissful relaxation: peace, calm, wrapped in a blanket of love as enveloping as
the long white dress that covered me.

But
before I got spanked, I woke up :(

About
a month ago, I had another spanking dream set in the mountains. Once again, I
was around 11 years old, but this time the hills were Appalachian green.

Once
again, I went up and up and up the hill, but this time the houses were smaller
wood-framed ones, not mansions. Finally I reached the very top of the hill and
saw a combination church/school made out of red brick and several stories high.

A
bell rang signifying the end of school. A nun stood on the steps and exiting
students wore plaid jumpers, so it was a Catholic girls’ school.

(I’m
not Catholic, but I yearned as a teenager to go the Catholic high school near
my neighborhood. I loved the look of the uniform plaid skirts and knee socks,
but I think I was more attracted to being educated in an orderly environment
instead of the pot smoker- and bully-infested suburban high school hell hole I
attended as a public school student.)

But
instead of leaving school for the day, I and a few other girls followed a nun
up many steps to the building’s attic classroom. There we changed out of our
jumpers into loose-fitting white dresses worn while serving detention.Then
we knelt in the corners of the room. The nun held a long ruler similar
to the way the mother in my other dream gripped her paddle, right hand holding
the bottom of the stick with left fingering the “spanking end.”

As
in my other dream, the disciplinarian didn’t speak, but we students recognized
spankings were coming once cornertime was done. Again a blissful feeling of
peace and calm washed over me.

And,
like the other dream, I woke up before I got spanked :(

OK,
the symbolic meaning of the female disciplinarian is clear: a wish for maternal
love. But why do both dreams begin by me climbing a huge hill and why do I wear
a white dress?

Is
my mind in dreams pondering heaven’s existence and my future there as an angel,
a naughty sort who gets loving spankings from God?

Perhaps.
But as I wrote this story, I recalled my earliest childhood memory.

It
was the mid 1960s, I was either three or four years old. My mother, brother and
I moved temporarily from Washington D.C. to live with relatives in West
Virginia because my Mom couldn’t handle being alone while Dad was deployed
in Vietnam.

(His
assignment meant he spent the whole time in Saigon completely out of harm’s
way, but still she was totally freaked out. Who could blame her?)

I
remember our family, minus Dad, coming back home from church one Sunday. I wore
a white dress. And, to get home, we drove up and up and up a hill, so different
from the District’s flat streets that I was used to.

We
arrived and I went inside the living room. “This is home now,” I said to
myself. “This is where I live.”

That’s
all I remember from that time.

“The
child is father of the man,” William Wordsworth said, but who is mother to the
girl?

Saturday, February 23, 2013

Hi
everybody. I’m Claire and I’m naughty. I don’t mean to be but sometimes I just
can’t help myself.

And
when I’m naughty my husband spanks me with the “naughty girl paddle,” no “ifs,”
“ands” or “buts” about the matter. It’s always been this way ever since we got
married twenty years ago.

When
I’m bad, my husband tells me to “fetch the paddle, little girl, you’re going to
be spanked.” And I best reply “Yes Sir, Daddy” in my most pleasant and
submissive tone or it’ll be all the worse for me.

Yup,
I call my husband “Daddy.” Always have. Always will. It’s one of Hubby’s many
rules for me. If I don’t call him “Daddy,” no matter where we are or who we’re
with, I get spanked on the spot. It can be kind of confusing when his parents
visit because my mother-in-law calls my father-in-law “Daddy” too.

After
I bring my husband the “naughty girl paddle,” I kneel before him. Hubby scolds
me for a long time about what I’ve done wrong. And then he puts me over his
knee, lifts my skirt, lowers my panties and spanks me till I’m screaming
“Please Daddy, please, don’t spank me so hard. I’ll be good.”

But
Hubby keeps spanking till tears and nose snot flow because he knows I need a
firm hand. He spanks me till I’m spent, till my voice is hoarse from screaming
and legs exhausted from making bicycle kicks in the air. My husband keeps
spanking till he’s spanked the “naughty” right out of me, at least for the time
being.

After
he’s spanked me, I must curtsy before my husband and kiss him softly on the
cheek whispering in his ear “Thank you Daddy for spanking me so hard. I know
you do it because you love me and care about how I behave.”

And
then my husband puts me in the “naughty chair.”

The
over-stuffed chair faces a corner of the living room. Normally it would feel
soft and comfy, except my bottom is always so sore after a spanking.

The
naughty chair hasn’t moved in the twenty years since we bought our house. It’s
kind of embarrassing if people we don’t know well come to visit because they
can’t help but see it.

“That’s
where Claire sits as additional punishment after I’ve spanked her for being
naughty,” my husband will tell them as he nods towards the chair. One or both
members of the visiting couple often blanch upon hearing this: spanking isn’t
“politically correct” these days.

“Your
daughter is also named ‘Claire’,” the wife might say. “My, but you’re awfully strict.
Do you really think she needs spanking?”

Then
he’ll give me a hard swat on the bottom with his open palm and tell me to show
the nice couple how I sit in the naughty chair.

So
there I sit with my ankles crossed and my hands folded primly in my lap,
looking straight ahead at the corner like a young lady should. And there I
continue to sit till my husband tells me I can get up.

After serving my time in the naughty chair , my husband always ask me if I’ve
learned my lesson. And I always say, “Yes Sir, Daddy.” And then he hugs and
kisses me and all is forgiven, until the next time I’m naughty.

Sometimes,
if I’m going to be sitting in the naughty chair for a really long time, my
husband gives me a teddy bear to hold for company. But lately he’s letting me have a pencil and a notebook because he wants me to use the time productively.

You
see, my husband wants me to write my story, and that of other girls like me, stories
of being raised by exceptionally strict parents and attending exceptionally
strict private schools where we were educated to be properly submissive young
ladies. And how we spend our married
lives with “Daddy Dominants” who keep us in a submissive state, keep us very
well in fact.